0 Spelt Orange Brioche with Maple Roasted Pears

A handful of days from our wedding, on January 7, 2012, I drove him to the airport. We had just come back from our honeymoon in Rome. In our initial intentions, it wasn’t supposed to be a honeymoon, but rather a New Year’s escape we booked way ahead. We found it convenient to simply change the name of the holiday, without actually changing its substance: a week exploring and eating, with visits to museums and monuments planned around lunch and dinner reservations.

I caught the flu right after we came back – actually, on our way back. I should have seen the bright side of this, but the idea of spending the rest of our so very precious days together at my parents’ home, with me drinking tea and sleeping on the couch, was still depressing. They went equally very fast.



The day of his departure, I drove him to the airport, bundled up in a rustic and puffy wool scarf my grandma had knitted me for Christmas, still very sick, and equally, deeply sad. His student visa has expired, and despite the marriage, my unemployment wasn’t going to grant him a permesso di soggiorno, or us a fresh start. We had everything planned out, though, and we were hopeful: The separation was going to be temporary, and very short – two months at the most. He was going to sort out the paperwork for my Green Card from the US, so that we could move together somewhere on the West Coast.

I really thought I could manage all this, - the separation, the awaiting, the unknown - but I was a mess the moment he passed security. Driving back, head numbed by fever and crying, runny nose, hazy eyes, I realized it was going to be fucking hard – every single day away from him was going to be a little torture, which no Skype call or long, heartfelt email was going to ease.



I tried to keep myself busy with writing, job searching, photographing, running, cooking, as well as taking care of my side of the bureaucracy to secure the paperwork we needed for the Green Card. As days passed, though, we not only felt like two months weren’t going to be enough, but also that moving across the ocean, jobless, without savings, wasn’t the easiest move. Job search wasn’t going great, and depression was rising high.

We decided to meet, unable to bare the distance any longer, in whatever place outside of Shengen we could manage to find cheap flights to. He was going to ask a friend from a previous job at the airline who still worked there for a buddy pass. The guy replied he had one for Dublin, flying in on February 14th, two weeks away. I booked my flight.

We met in Dublin on St Valentine’s Day, you see, but it wasn’t planned, and it wasn’t relevant. We would have made it a special one regardless, for the simple fact of being able to hug each other again. During that week, we tried to avoid every sad feeling or talk about the uncertain future awaiting us, and just tried to sink into the joy of spending time together. Yet, during that week, we decided to cut it short, we decided we couldn’t take another long-term separation. We were going to wait for the paperwork together, in a third country, where we could both live and work and speak the language and function in society. Here we are, two years later, still trying to figure out what we are doing, but looking at the sun rising and setting from the same time zone – the same window.

Spelt Orange Brioche 

For your Valentines breakfast, or not. Any day is worth celebrating with a special sart.

Adapted from Manger

 

300g/ 2 cups 3/4 while spelt flour (sifted) 

2 eggs 

50g/ 1/4 cup granulated cabe sugar 

1 pack (8 g/ 1 Tbsp) of baker’s yeast

90g/ 1/3 cup + 1 Tbsp butter, cubed, at room temperature

1 pinch of salt 

90 ml/ 1/3 cup lukewarm milk 

30 ml/ 2 Tbsp orange blossom water 

50g candied orange peel, cubed

2 Tbsp lukewarm water

1 Tbsp butter for greasing the mould

1 egg for glazing 

A handful of small sugar grains (optional) 

Dissolve the yeast in a small bowl with 2 tbsp of lukewarm water. Set aside for 5-10 minutes or until it turns frothy.

In a large bowl, mix sifted flour, salt, sugar, yeast and butter. Add eggs, orange blossom water and milk gradually and mix well with a big wooden spoon. Start kneading until you get a smooth ball-shaped dough, about 8-10 minutes. Cover bowl with a cloth and leave to rise in a warm room/environment overnight.

The next day, start kneading the dough on a non floured surface, about 1-2 minutes. Line a 9-inch rectangular tin generously with butter and place the dough inside. Cover with a cloth and leave to rise again for 2 hours. Preheat the oven to 180°C/ 350°F. Whisk the egg and brush the surface of the brioche. Sprinkle with sugar grains all over and bake for 30 minutes.

Remove and let cool lightly before slicing. It is good the day after, toasted.

Maple Rosted Pears

2 large pears

1 vanilla bean

1/4 cup / 60ml maple syrup

2 Tbsp water

Preheat the oven at 180°C/ 350°F (you can bake this together with brioche). Peel and quarter the pears, removing the seeds inside. Place on a large baking dish.

Cut the vanilla bean lenghtwise and scrape the seeds into a small bowl. Add the maple syrup and water, whisk so that the seeds are all in the liquid. Pour over the pears, move them around gently to coat them in the syrup using a wooden spoon. Bake for 20 minutes, until soft.
Remove and let cool lightly. Serve over brioche with crème fraiche or Greek yoghurt.

Detail: Spelt Orange Brioche with Maple Roasted Pears

0 Italian Table Talk Holiday Edition: Edible Gifts & Cubbaita (Sesame Brittle)

I have never been the best at presents. Neither for myself, not for others. Not for a lack of generosity, or memory, or time. Rather, for over-thinking it. I research, spend days browsing shops and opening tabs of online stores, pin links, mentally bookmark the things I find here and there, promising to go back to them after some reflection and evaluation - only to become overwhelmed and unable to choose. Perhaps my problem is that I have always try to pick the perfect object, the one that will please and surprise at the same time, and yet be totally in line with the personality of the receiver; something that would fit my budget without looking cheap; a gift that will impress both in creativity and in taste. You see how it can become a challenging task.

Every year since the beginning of my adult life, I promise to myself that I would sort out all the Christmas presents before the beginning of December, leaving the few weeks before Christmas to relaxing decorations of the house, and swapping last-second shopping madness with long, soothing walks in the fields or the forest. I have failed almost every year, until two years ago, when life turned all my plas upside-down, and taught me a very simple and yet reveling lesson: food.

Two years ago, we were in the process of moving from Bra into a new life together. Unable to find the time to go shopping for Christmas presents while moving and organising our little wedding, and with a small budget available, we decided to give everybody home-made, edible presents instead. My syllogistic thinking went this way: "Everybody likes food; cookies are food; everybody likes cookies. I can make cookies; I can make many kind of cookies; I'll make cookies for everybody." And so I did, and the response was better than I could have ever hoped for. Giving good food made with time and care and thoughtfulness can make people truly happy, more than any piece of object that might or might not be ever used. Food can be enjoyed and cherished and shared in a way no object can.
This month, in line with the upcoming holidays, we are turning this episode of Italian Table Talk into a small exchange of edible presents. Under the Christmas tree, you'll find Emiko's wonderful torrone sardo, made with only egg whites, honey and almonds; Giula's calzoncelli, cookies from Basilicata; Jasmines gelées, soft jelly candies. And my sesame brittle. For Christmas has to be sweet.

Sesame brittle, I said. Called croccante in Italian, it is a traditional Sicilian sweet, made especially during Christmas time. The name changes depending on the part of Sicily you stumble upon it: cubbaita in the East, and giuggiulena in the West. I even found it to be called cubbaita di giuggiulena, combining the two words. Both are of Arabic (as Sicilian cuisine and culture has been deeply influenced by the Arabs), the former meaning 'brittle', the latter 'sesame'. It is not uncommon to find this sweet on the stall of candy vendors in local fairs throughout the whole country, together with candies almonds, marzipan and pistachio cookies. This is where I came across it the first time and loved it.

Cubbaita or Giuggiulena

I have seen many different recipes for this sweet: with a higher sugar to honey ratio, for a harder version, or vice versa for a more chewy one; with only sesame, or with sesame and almonds; with orange zest (fresh or candied). I went for a medium-hard cubbaita, enriched with almonds like you would find in most places these days, but skipped the orange. I used this recipe as a reference.

100 g light brown sugar 

100 g honey (thyme or other intensely aromatic kind)

250g sesame seeds

125 g almond with the skin, roughly chopped

half a lemon 

Before starting, line the surface where you will spread your brittle: it could be some marble (ideally), or a large baking tray with some parchment on it. If using marble, grease it lightly with some butter.

Now, heat the sugar and the honey together in a medium saucepan over low heat. When the sugar has melted, and the sauce is boiling, stir in the sesame, and quickly combine into the hot syrup. Keep stirring for five-six minutes, until the sesame is toasted and fragrant. At this point, incorporate the almonds and stir for one more minute.

Spread the sill hot (careful!) seed mixture over the lined surface. When flattened, place a sheet of parchment on top, and finish spreading using a rolling pin. You are aiming at 3-4mm thickness here.
Remove the parchment delicately. Fork the lemon half and use the cut part to shine the surface of your brittle.

Cut before it cools completely, as it will get harder and harder to do it. Wet the blade of a big chef knife and cut in diagonals. Once completely cooled, you can store the brittle squares in an air-tight container until ready to use (or pack and give to your friends and family).

Detail: Italian Table Talk Holiday Edition: Edible Gifts & Cubbaita (Sesame Brittle)

0 Italian Table Talk #16: Merenda and Cookies

Whenever I say I grew up in a tiny village in the Venetian countryside, people start to make assumptions, and I don't blame them. It must sound like the best place to land on this planet. Although it has its charming traits and its good sides, there are quite a few myths to debunk about my childhood.

For starters, there were no kids - only four of us in my class in primary school. Four. Which means a) any team game was automatically a bummer and lasted very shortly; and b) I had to do the maths and the grammar at the blackboard every single day. And what is worse, I had no one to exchange or share my food with. On the break between classes (intervallo), when kids were allowed to eat a snack and run around, I would eat whatever my mum had put in the little zipper pocket of my Topo Gigio backpack without a chance to trade it with someone else. Statistically speaking, four people were simply not enough. Not that anybody would have wanted to trade their food with mine anyway, and the reason for this takes me to the second myth.

My mum is the least stereotypical mum you can possibly imagine - in fact, you can't imagine her, but let me help you, as I think you'll like her. She has never fit in and never done anything that the other mums of the village were doing, or not enough for the young version of myself to record any similarities. It was sometimes upsetting, but in retrospect, I am so grateful for her 'uniqueness'  - it taught me a good deal of life lessons on the way. My mum has always worked  at home, but don't call her a housewife, she would rather say she 'manages a family business'. This meant I was always assured a good, home-cooked meal upon returning from school, at 12.30pm. The deal was she would wait for me at home rather than coming to pick me up at school. I never understood why I had to be the only one without a mum or grandma there to pick me up, why I was the one having to walk or bike. Now, whenever I go back to my parents house, I walk that little trail: 300 meters total. And I laugh at my past sorrow: it is so safe and quiet you can walk in the middle of the road. I have always had my mother's trust (almost, except when I was between 13 and 16), and that was just one of her ways of telling me. But back to the meal: I would return to a lovely lunch, usually consisting of two courses (primo and secondo). On Monday and Tuesday, it would be just the two of us sitting at the table, as I had to return to school for afternoon activities. The rest of the week, I would come home and find her still stirring and flipping, and lunch was ready when my dad would come home from school, too - he is a teacher.

My mum is a fine cook, but back then, she gave in a bit to the sirens of modernity - who didn't? Not everything that appeared on our table was homemade, and we were perfectly fine with that: a little frozen chicken schnitzel here, a little store-bought pasta sauce there, and she could find a second for herself, too. I thought the food was fantastic, and anyway, the no-homemade things were well concealed under a good dose of vegetables, and some really tasty pasta, soups or risotto, all made from scratch. She wouldn't make anything very unhealthy, and that was her rule for packaged food, too. It wasn't everyday, either - she wouldn't allow it.


You might have guessed by now that she was in charge of the grocery shopping. Because she has never been a baker, and for never I mean never, all the sweet things in our house were outsourced. The baking-phobia was surely enhanced by the fact that our oven has never worked properly, and that cakes would never rise. It was only good for cookies or crostate. It could have been fixed, I suppose, but as many things in our house, it never was - we just replaced the whole kitchen when it got too old. In the end, it didn't matter much. Baking has never been her passion: too messy, too long. She preferred to use that time to read, and buy crackers, cookies and little cakes instead. Looking at the whole picture now, I can't say I would blame her.

Merenda, the afternoon snack as it is called in Italian, has often taken the shape of a baked good of some sort for me, usually sweet, and rarely homemade. A beloved ritual I would consume at around 4.30pm, it was possibly my favourite 'meal' of the day, second only to breakfast, and rightly so: it was the only time I was allowed something remotely sweet. My mum never bought candy or chocolate; the omnipresent Nutella was a very, very rare presence in our cupboard. What she would fill the shelves with, instead, were relatively wholesome cookies and not-too-heavy mini cakes, usually those containing even the smallest idea of vegetables or fruits in it. The to-go ones were, generally, some little cakes shaped like a dome and made with almond meal, carrots and orange, or wholegrain cookies with fruits and nuts. Not exactly the choice a kid would make - where is the chocolate? But I didn't have any choice. She was the boss, and she never took me grocery shopping until I was 15, to avoid discussions. It was ether that, or fruit. Or worse, yogurt. Now you know why no one wanted to trade their chocolaty snack with mine. Again, in retrospect, I am quite pleased no one did.

In time, I learnt to love those wholegrain cookies. They were actually really crunchy, and I liked that they had little bits of nuts in it, and some chewy bits of raisins - that's because my mum would buy the 'fruit & fibre' flavour. They were, to me, a good snack, which I liked munching on in front of my afternoon TV allowance, usually Japanese cartoons, before getting back to do my homework, or going to the pool or to ballet class.



Needless to say, I was very glad when together with Emiko, Giulia and Jasmine, we chose merenda as the topic for this month's Italian Table Talk. It was the perfect excuse to bring back all these fond memories. Also, it was the perfect excuse to try to reproduce those cookies, and to have them in the afternoon, with a glass of juice (no tea or milk for me back then, although I quite like them with milk now). Sitting on the sofa, staring at a white wall with a smile, seeing images of myself, back there and then.

Before you head to the recipe, let me introduce the rest of the afternoon feast: Giulia will share a slice of her beautiful zuppa inglese; Emiko, a wholesome savoury snack, pane al pomodoro; and Jasmine, a decadent, creamy zabaione.

Wholegrain Fruit & Nut Cookies (Grancereale style)

 Adapted from here

I used metrics here, as the original recipe calls for them, but also because I am firmly convinced that with cookies, a kitchen scale will simply give you a better result - in this case, the perfect crunch. 

Makes 18 cookies

100g oat flakes, ground 

50g cornmeal, fine 

50g wholemeal flour 

40g muscovado sugar 

20g granulated natural cane sugar

1/2 tsp baking powder 

1/2 tsp baking soda 

1/2 tsp fine grain sea salt

100g butter, cold and cut into cubes 

2 1/2 Tbsp milk, cold

50g walnuts, chopped 

50g raisins 

Place oats, cornmeal, flour, sugar, baking powder, salt and baking soda in a food processor. Pulse to combine. Add the butter and pulse until you'll have a crumbly, coarse mixture. Pour in the milk and pulse to form a ball of dough. Add the walnuts and raisins and give a few more pulses to incorporate. Using a wooden spoon, transfer the dough from the food processor over a sheet of cling film. Wrap well to form a ball, and refrigerate for half hour up to one hour. In the meantime, preheat the oven to 170 C/340F. Remove the dough from the fridge, unwrap it, and place it over a well floured working surface. Using a floured rolling pin, roll the cookie dough to 5mm thick. Cut the cookies using a round cookie cutter, place them onto a cookie tray covered with parchment, then roll the leftover dough and repeat until you are left with no dough. Bake the cookies for about 15 minutes, after which you can turn off the oven, open the door and let the cookies cool for 5 minutes inside the oven. Finally, remove completely and let cool on a rack. When completely cold, you can store them in a cookie tin for up to 5 days.

Detail: Italian Table Talk #16: Merenda and Cookies

0 Membrillo Cake

Word kept.

This cake has become a favorite of ours recently. It is inspired by a Membrillo Cake found on my cooking bible, twisted here and there, and enriched by oats, poppy seeds and a hint of coconut. We absolutely love its fall-ish scent and its crumbly texture, and enjoy it especially in the morning, as an alternative to oatmeal when we are in the mood for a treat.

Quince jelly or membrillo is something I became familiar with recently, working in the cheese room, and seeing it paired with strong cheeses like Manchego. In Italy, the same quince jelly is called cotognata, but it has never been something popular in my family, being made especially in Sicily, where Spanish influences were very strong in the past.

I have to admit I have never loved jams with cheese, so whenever I bring home some, it is more for sweet dessert plans rather than for a a cheese platter. I tend to treat is as a normal jelly, adding it to cakes as I would with any other fruit jam. Which, as far as membrillo goes, is something quite common in Spain and Portugal as well.

In this cake, the jelly is added to the batter cut in tiny cubes, which melt to soft sweet pockets in the cooked cake. The soft jam pockets create a pleasant contrast with the oat-t flavor, the crumbly crumb  and the crunchy seeds. Sweet enough and healthy enough, is something we foresee to make over and over again. As fall has just begun.

Membrillo Cake

I tried both the dairy and the vegan version of this cake and I enjoyed both equally --they both work well. So, feel free to pick yours depending on dietary requirements and ingredients you have on hand. 

3/4 cup whole wheat flour

1/4 cup oat flour (or more whole wheat flour)

1/4 cup shredded unsweetened coconut

1/2 tsp baking soda

1/4 cup dark brown sugar

1/4 cup poppy seeds

1/4 tsp fine grain sea salt

grated zest of 1 lemon

1 egg, lightly beaten

1T butter (or coconut oil), melted

1/2 cup whole milk (or oat milk)

1/4 cup full-fat greek yogurt (or coconut cream)

150 gr membrillo (quince jelly), cut into tiny cubes

1 T rolled oats

1 T natural caster sugar

shredded coconut, for garnishing

Preheat the oven to 375°F and grease a 9-inch cake pan. In a large bowl, mix flours, coconut, baking soda, seeds, sugar, salt and lemon zest. In a medium bowl, mix egg, butter or oil, milk, and yogurt or cream. Add the wet to the dry ingredients and stir to blend. Add membrillo and stir more. Spread the batter into prepared baking pan, sprinkle the top with sugar and oats. Bake for 20-25 minutes or until deep golden and cooked through. Remove from the oven, sprinkle with coconut, and let cool before slicing. 

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L'avevo promesso.

Questa torta è diventata la preferita di casa, in questi mesi. Ispirata alla Membrillo Cake della mia bibbia culinaria, e rigirata a modo mio, con avena, semi di papavero e un tocco di cocco, è uno di quei dolci un po' autunnali e un po' sempreverdi. Un dolce sbriciolevole come piace a me, di quelli da colazione, quando il porridge ci ha un po' annoiati e siamo in vena di qualcosa di dolce. 

Il membrillo, la gelatina di melacotogna tipica della Spagna, è qualcosa che ho conosciuto di recente, lavorando nel campo del formaggio, in quanto si abbina tradizionalmente a formaggi forti come il Manchego. Eppure, dovrei conoscerla, dato che abbiamo la versione nostrana, la cotognata. Eppure, la cotognata non si è mai vista dalle mie parti, essendo più tipica del sud per via delle influenze spagnole. 

Essendo poi che l'abbinamento marmellata-formaggio non è di mio grande apprezzamento, ogni volta che mi prende la tentazione di portare a casa un pezzetto di membrillo, finisce che ci faccio una torta. Questa. Dove la gelatina si scioglie in cottura e crea delle piccole tasche dolci tra l'impasto, in perfetto contrasto con l'avena, rustica com'è, e i croccanti semini di papavero. Dolce eppur decentemente sana, è qualcosa che faremo ancora, ancora e ancora. 'Chè l'autunno è appena cominciato. 

Membrillo Cake

Di questo dolce ho provato sia la versione a base di latticini, sia quella vegana, amandole entrambe, e apprezzando minime differenze a livello di risultato. Scegliete quella che vi va in base a gusti ed ingredienti che avete sotto mano. 

105 gr di farina integrale

25 gr di farina d'avena

30 gr di cocco essiccato grattugiato

1/2 cucchiaino di bicarbonato

55 gr di zucchero muscovado

30 gr circa di semi di papavero

la punta di un cucchiaino di sale fino

buccia grattugiata di 1 limone bio

1 uovo leggermente sbattuto

1 cucchiaio di burro fuso o olio di cocco fuso

120 ml di latte intero (o latte d'avena)

60 ml di yogurt greco intero  (o crema di cocco)

150 gr di membrillo, tagliato in piccoli cubetti

1 cucchiaio di fiocchi d'avena

1 cucchiaio di zucchero di canna granulato

cocco grattugiato, per guarnire.

Scaldate il forno a 200°C e imburrate una teglia da 22 cm. In una ciotola, mescolate gli ingredienti secchi i primi 8), in una ciotola più piccola mescolate gli ingredienti liquidi. Aggiungete i liquidi agli ingredienti secchi ed amalgamate, aggiungete poi il membrillo a cubetti, mescolate di nuovo, quindi trasferite l'impasto nella teglia imburrata, cospargete la superficie con zucchero e fiocchi d'avena, e infornate. Cuocete per 20-25 minuti (prova stecchino!), quindi sfornate, cospargete la superficie col cocco. Lasciate raffreddare la torta prima di tagliarla (o vi ustionerete con la marmellata). 

Detail: Membrillo Cake

0 Italian Table Talk #4: On Harvest and a Grape Must Pudding | Vendemmia e Sùgoli

 

Often, I reflect on the concept of seasonality, on its meaning and value. I think I came to the realization that it is simply a variable parameter, a tool that help us understand the reality around us rather than a rule we have to follow. Seasonality, like time, is relative and personal.




Back in Italy, I thought I knew very clearly what eating seasonally meant, and I behaved accordingly. If we pay the smallest attention, we will see how traditional Italian recipes reflects this pure and simple concepts. But now that I live in London, seasonal food is different from what I was used to, or it simply comes at a different time. For instance, in Italy I was used to eat figs at the end of August, while here they are still tough and green, staring at me from the branches with stone-like attitude.

September, in my mind, is the month of grape harvest. In Italian, we have a specific name for the harvest of grapes, which is different from other kinds of harvests: vendemmiare. This is why we chose it for this month's theme of Italian Table Talk: it is a key moment in the Italian cycle of seasonal food, and it carries a good deal of history and local traditions, but also interesting recipes with grapes and must. This time of the year, everywhere in Italy you can find festivals that celebrate the harvest and the end of the Summer season: from North to South, the end of the vendemmia is a feast worth remembering with good food and, of course, wine.

Alas, the UK is not big at viticulture. What I thought was an easy task --getting some wine grapes such as Concord/Fox grape, or Merlot Grape, or Muscat Grape for my recipe-- revealed being pretty challenging. All I could find was seedless table grapes from Chile. I finally spotted a little store who had only a few clusters of Muscat Grapes imported from France, and I jumped on them, despite their hard-to-justify price. This is when I started to reflect on the relativity of seasonality: never take anything for granted. What is cibo dei poveri (food of the poor) here, is a luxury good there.

And to think that in Italy, especially in the past, wine grapes were the only ones, for the rich and the poor. Seasonal workers would have been enrolled in the harvest and surely, some grapes would have been taken home, perhaps the damaged ones, to eat and cook. In Veneto, women made a sweet pudding with grape must, a thick and energetic sweet treat, perfect to give some calories to keep going in the vineyards. Sugoi, or sùgoli, was indeed a sweet of the poor, as it was made with the simplest, available ingredients and didn't require much sugar --the sweetness from the grapes was enough. Some women would make giant pots of sùgoli and sell them in town, where people were waiting with a bowl in hands, ready to welcome a generous scoop of that purple red delight. In my family, sùgoli have been made through generations, passing from grandma to mum to daughter. My mum made them for us sometimes, but my memory of it is far and vague --all I remember is that I didn't particularly like them as a child.





I haven't eaten them since then. But this month's theme was the perfect occasion to rediscover this family recipe, this local tradition linked to this specific time of the year. I bought my grapes, a masher, and got started.

The name sùgoli is somehow related to the word "sugo", juice. It is, indeed, nothing more than a grape juice pudding. You can make it starting from the must, but if you only have the grapes like me, you have to extract the juice before getting into the thickening part. The recipe, of course, is as easy as it sounds. Just grapes, flour and, perhaps, some sugar. Additional toppings include cinnamon or dark cocoa powder, but none of them have ever been used in my family.

Sùgoli

1,5 kg wine grapes

4 T all-purpose flour, sifted

1 T granulated white sugar (optional, to taste, depending on the type of grape you're using)

Wash grapes and place them in a large saucepan on low heat with 1/4 cup water. Bring to a boil and simmer until grapes have busted, about 5 minutes. Using a masher or a strainer, separate the juice (must) from seeds and skins. Let the juice cool. Put the juice back in the saucepan over low heat and add the flour (and, if used, the sugar), whisking energetically to avoid lumps. Bring to a simmer, and cook for about ten minutes, until the sauce becomes thick and dense. Remove from heat and pour into serving cups. Let cool, then store in the refrigerator until ready to eat. Serve cold.

And now, head over to Jasmine for a big classic, schiacciata con l'uva, to Emiko for a very interesting risotto inspired by Elizabeth David, and to Giulia for an amazing harvest-style jam. Enjoy!

PS: you can follow Italian Table Talk on Twitter at #ITabletalk, plus:

Emiko on Twitter or Pinterest

Giulia on Twitter, Facebook or Pinterest

Jasmine on Twitter, Facebook or Pinterest

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Rifletto spesso sul concetto di stagionalità, sul suo significato e valore, e credo di essere arrivata alla conclusione che si tratti di nient'altro che di un parametro, una variabile, un concetto/strumento che ci permette di catalogare e capire la realtà che ci circonda. La stagionalità, lungi dall'essere una regola da rispettare, è per me un modo di essere, un modo di vivere, e per questa ragione, è qualcosa di strettamente personale e relativo. 

Quando ancora vivevo in Italia, credevo di sapere benissimo in cosa consistesse la stagionalità nella vita di tutti i giorni, e cercavo di vivere in linea con questo principio. In realtà non era molto difficile: tra i mercati e le ricette della tradizione, le stagioni si manifestavano a me nel modo più naturale e semplice possibile. Ora, invece, la stagionalità diventa qualcosa di più difficile da percepire, o meglio, è semplicemente sfasata rispetto a quella a cui ero abituata. I fichi non maturano più ad agosto: qui, ancora mi guardano impietriti, verdi, dai rami al di là dei muri di cinta. Non è ancora il loro tempo. 

 

Così, settembre è da sempre stato, nella mia mente come nell'immaginario collettivo italiano, il mese della vendemmia e dell'uva. Per questo, abbiamo pensato di dedicare il nuovo appuntamento di Italian Table Talk a questo tema: in questo periodo la nostra penisola pullula di feste di paese, appuntamenti in cantina, e ricette e tradizioni legate alla vendemmia e alla mescita dell'uva. 

Ahimè, qui in Inghilterra la viticoltura non la fa da padrona. Ingenuamente, pensavo non sarebbe stato così difficile trovare dell'uva da vino al mercato (in fondo, è settembre, mi dicevo), ed invece... Ho cercato e ricercato, imbattendomi in sola uva cilena da tavola, senza semi. Alla fine, ho trovato un paio di grappoli di uva moscata di provenienza francese, venduta a peso d'oro --e d'altronde, è davvero una rarità. L'ho presa, ed è stato sulla via di casa che ho riflettuto sulla stagionalità, e sul non dare più nulla per scontato, incluso il fatto che quel che una volta era cibo dei poveri, ora potrebbe essere un bene di lusso. 

Pensare che in Italia, in passato, c'era quasi solo uva da vino, si fosse ricchi o poveri. I braccianti arruolati per la vendemmia riuscivano sempre a portarsene a casa un po', magari di quella rovinata, e a farne qualcosa di buono. In Veneto, ad esempio, si faceva una sorta di budino di mosto e farina, denso e dolce, perfetto per ricaricare di energia chi lavorava in vigna. I sùgoi, o sùgoli era proprio un dolce dei  poveri, in quanto era fatto con ingredienti semplici, e non richiedeva quasi zucchero. Alcune donne ne facevano grandi pentoloni, e li vendevano per le strade di paese, con la gente ad aspettare con le ciotole in mano. Nella mia famiglia, i sùgoli si facevano sempre, e la ricetta è passata di generazione in generazione. Quanto a me, credo di averli assaggiati da piccola, fatti da mia mamma o mia nonna, e ho il vago ricordo di non averli amati particolarmente. 

Da allora, non li ho più mangiati. Ma il tema di questo mese era l'occasione perfetta per rispolverare questa ricetta di famiglia, questa tradizone Veneta legata alla vendemmia. Mi sono armata di uva e passaverdure (che, tra l'altro, mi è costato meno dell'uva, ndr), e mi sono messa all'opera. 

Il nome sùgoli deriva certamente da"sugo"o succo. In fondo, non è niente di più di un succo d'uva addensato. Si possono fare a partire dall'uva o, se avete la fortuna di trovarlo, dal mosto già bello che fatto. La ricetta è semplicissima: uva, farina, e un po' di zucchero, se vi va, e via. Alcune ricette prevedono l'aggiunta di cannella o cacao in polvere per finire, ma nessuno dei due è mai stato usato nella ricetta della mia famiglia. 

Sùgoli

1,5 kg di uva da vino

4 cucchiai di farina 00 setacciata

1-2 cucchiai di zucchero semolato*

Lavate gli acini e metteteli in una pentola con un dito d'acqua sul fondo. Portate ad ebollizione e cuocere per circa 5 minuti. Sentirete gli acini scoppiettare. Quando tutti gli acini sono aperti, passateli al passaverure per rimuovere semi e bucce. Lasciate raffreddare, quindi rimettete sul fuoco e versate subito la farina ed, eventualmentem lo zucchero. Amalgamante con una frusta, velocemente per evitare grumi. Cuocete per circa 5-10 minuti, fino a che il liquido si è addensato e ha raggiunto una consistenza da budino. Togliete dal fuoco e versate negli stampini o in uno stampo grande. lasciate raffreddare, quindi servite o mettete in frigo. Sono buoni serviti freddi. 

*L'aggiunta di zucchero dipende dal vostro gusto personale e dalla dolcezza dell'uva. Se usate uva fragola o di moscato, ve ne servirà poco o nulla. 

E ora, godetevi le altre storie e ricette di questo mese: Jasmine ci racconterà di un grande classico di stagione, la schiacciata con l'uva, Emiko prensenterà un interessantissimo risotto di tradizione veneta ispirato da Elizabeth David, e Giulia condividerà la sua ricetta della marmellata di uva, fichi e mele. 

PS: potete continuare a seguire Italian Table Talk su Twitter con l'ashtag #ITabletalk, e sbirciare cosa stiamo combinando nel frattempo:

Emiko su Twitter e Pinterest

Giulia su Twitter, Facebook e Pinterest

Jasmine su Twitter, Facebook e Pinterest

Detail: Italian Table Talk #4: On Harvest and a Grape Must Pudding | Vendemmia e Sùgoli

0 Good-Mood Chocolate Cookies

It takes only a slipping knife, and one's world is turned upside-down for days. That's what happened, a knife that slipped, a cut in a hand, stitches, home from work. Me not being able to perform the most stupid, basic, daily tasks, from putting up my hair to washing my face.  From cutting an apple from my oatmeal to washing a salad. From baking bread to doing the dishes.

"I feel like Edward Scissorhands", I told J, while trying to serve myself some salad, failing miserably and spreading corn kernels all over the table. He smiled, helped me with the serving spoons and cleaned my mess. He knows I am stubborn. Sometimes, he lets me try, but he is ready to save the situation before I go too far. "Nonono, Val, leave it, sit down."

I am tired of sitting down already.

One, two, three days at home like that and I start to feel anxious. Sure, I can read. I can use my time to do (pretty useless and yet fulfilling) tasks that I have put on a side for a long time. Re-organize ideas, write those emails saved in the draft file for months --yes, typing with one hand takes ages, but thank god I have anything but time. Take walks and deep breaths. I can take pictures with one hand, although blurry 99% of the times. But.

This is a good lesson. The smallest thing can deeply affect us, our routine and habits. Never take anything for granted. And beware of small, sharp knives, please. You really don't want to end up like yours truly, I assure you.




Anyway, let's stop with my lament. I thought something sweet would uplift the spirit of this post (and mine), so here I am, talking about chocolate chip cookies. What? Me, chocolate, cookies? Yep, you heard me. Chocolate chip cookies and milk is one of the most miraculous cures for lonely souls. Give them to a kid with the flu and he'll feel better in a second. Give them to J and his day will shine of a new light. Oh, give one to me, too, please. Want some? I have plenty. I made them before getting hurt and look how useful they turned out. Another lesson: never ask yourself too many questions while making (a lot) of cookies. They will come handy sooner or later.

Now, I strongly believe the world doesn't need another chocolate chip cookie recipe --or it surely doesn't need mine. I don't have one, anyway. Also, I think that in hard times, one should rely on trusted friends. So I did --I headed to her blog and looked for chocolate chip cookies, found many, chose my favorite and had me started.

I followed her instructions pretty closely, having almost all the ingredients required for, but as she says at the beginning of the recipe, you can swap and adapt it at your liking. My impression: these cookies are small bite-size bombs of chewy goodness. But, they are sweet, very very sweet. So, if you like sweet go for it, they are just the perfect cookies for you, if not, my suggestion is to lower the sugar called for by 1/4 cup at least, or to use a more bitter, darker type of chocolate. Or both. That's what I am going to do next --whenever my hand allows me to -- and what I reported on the recipe below. In the meantime, I'll enjoy what remains of these, dipped in a big cup of milk which is sitting precariously on the couch edge. I like to live dangerously, I'll never learn.

Bite-Size Chocolate Chip Cookies

Lightly adapted from an Heidi Swanson's recipe

Yields about 60 small cookies

5 oz/140 gr good-quality semi-sweet chocolate bar (I used Hotel Chocolat 66% dark chocolate)

1 cup whole wheat flour

1/2 tsp baking powder

1/2 tsp baking soda

1/2 tsp salt

1 cup old-fashioned rolled oats

1/2 cup walnuts, finely chopped (by hand)

1/2 cup unsalted butter, at room temperature

3/4 cup raw natural dark brown sugar

scant 1 T organic unsulphured molasses (blackstrap)

1 medium organic egg

1 1/2 tsp pure vanilla extract

Preheat your oven to 350F degrees, racks in top and bottom third. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper. Finely chop the chocolate bar into tiny shavings. In a mixing bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, oats, walnuts, and shaved chocolate. Set aside. Using a wooden spoon, cream the butter until fluffy, then add the sugar and mix until it is also light and fluffy. Add the molasses, then the egg and the vanilla, mixing until everything is well incorporated, Add the flour mix and stir until the ingredients come together into a uniform dough. Scoop out the dough in  tablespoon size. Roll each tablespoon of dough into a ball shape. Place two inches apart on your prepared baking sheets. Bake for 10 minutes or until cookies are golden and fragrant. Remove from oven, and cool on a wire rack. Store in an air-tight container up to 10 days.

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Basta che un coltello vi scivoli di mano e il vostro mondo si scompiglia. Questo è quello che è successo a me, un coltello che scivola, un bel taglio su una mano, due punti, a casa. Io che non sono capace nemmeno di fare le cose più basiche, dal legarmi i capelli al lavarmi la faccia, dal tagliare una mela a lavare l'insalata, dal fare il pane al lavare i piatti.  

"Mi sento come Edward Mani di Forbice", ho detto a J mentre mi disperavo nel tentativo di mettermi l'insalata nel piatto, sparpagliandola invece su tutta la tavola.  Lui sorride, mi prende i cucchiai dalla mano, mi serve l'insalata e ripulisce il disastro. Sa che sono cocciuta e mi lascia provare, ma è sempre pronto a salvare la situazione. "Nonononono Val, lascia, no lasciaaaa, stai giù". 

Son già stufa di stare giù.

Uno, due, tre giorni a casa in questo stato e già inizio a scalpitare. Certo, posso leggere, fare tutte quelle cose (utili o meno) che avevo accantonato per mille motivi di tempo e priorità. Posso riorganizzare le idee, scrivere quelle vecchie mail salvate in bozze per anni (anche se a scriverle con una mano sola ci metto un secolo). Posso camminare e respirare a pieni polmoni l'aria fresca del parco. Posso perfino fare foto con la mano buona, sebbene belle suocate nel 99% dei casi. Ma.

Mi sarà di lezione, quest'è certo. Il più piccolo, veloce evento può influire moltissimo sulle notre abitudini, sulla nostra vita quotidiana. Mai sottovalutare, mai dare per scontato. E mai fidarsi di piccoli coltelli affilati. Che poi non si dica che non vi ho avvisati --di sicuro non voglio che finiate come la sottoscritta.

Comunque, archiviato il lamento, passiamo a qualcosa che possa sollevare gli animi (i vostri, il mio, e quello del post). Qualcosa di dolce, qualcosa come i biscotti al cioccolato. Che, chi, io, biscotti, cioccolato? Eh, che vi devo dire, i biscotti al cioccolato sono davvero una delle miglior cure per animi affranti, e sono sicura di non essere l'unica a pensarlo. Dateli ad un bambino con la febbre e smetterà di piagnucolare. Dateli a J e un nuovo sole illuminerà la sua giornata. Datene anche uno a me, per questa volta. Voi potete prenderne quanti volete, ce n'è per un reparto ospedaliero intero. E mica li ho fatti ora, eh, li avevo fatti prima dell'incidente, e guarda come son tornati utili! Altra lezione: mai aver le braccia corte in tema di biscotti, non si sa mai quando ne avrete bisogno (parlo per aforismi più di Forrest Gump, di questi tempi, perdonatemi).

Ora, sono della ferma opinione che il mondo non necessiti affatto dell'ennesima ricetta dei biscotti con le gocce di cioccolato (i famigerati chocolate chip cookies), non importa quanto ultimate sia. Inoltre, sono convinta che nei momenti del biosogno sia importante rivolgersi a fonti sicure e amici fidati. Così ho fatto: sono andata dritta sul suo blog, ho digitato "chocolate chip cookies", ho trovato una sfilza di ricette e ho scelto quella che faceva al caso mio. 

Ho seguito le istruzioni abbastanza fedelmente, avendo quasi tutti gli ingredienti giusti, ma avrei potuto anche fare di testa mia se avessi voluto (la ricetta si presta bene a modifiche). Impressioni: questi biscottini da morso e via sono delle piccole bombe di mastichevole bontà.  Ma sono dolci, molto molto dolci, per cui vi avverto, se vi piace il dolce OK, se vi piace con moderazione vi consiglio di seguire il mio suggerimento (riportato nella ricetta sotto) e di usare meno zucchero e/o del cioccolato più amaro.  Seguirò il mio stesso consiglio anch'io, la prossima volta --quando la mia mano incidentata mi permetterà di rimettermi ai fornelli. Nel frattempo, mi godo quel che resta di questi, affondandoli in un bicchierone di latte posato precariamente sul bracciolo del divano. Sì, mi piace vivere pericolosamente. No, non imparerò mai. 

Bite-Size Chocolate Chip Cookies

Leggermente adattata da una ricetta di Heidi Swanson

Per circa 60 piccoli biscotti

140 gr di buon cioccolato al 65-70% di cacao (io ho usato Hotel Chocolat 66% dark chocolate)

1 cup/ circa 140 gr di farina integrale

1/2 cucchiaino di lievito per dolci

1/2 tsp cucchiaino di bicarbonato di sodio

1/2 cucchiaino di sale fino

1 cup/ 90 gr di fiocchi d'avena 

1/2 cup/ 60 gr di noci tritate molto finemente

1/2 cup/110gr di burro morbido

3/4 cup/165 gr zucchero di canna naturale (muscovado)

1 cucchiaio scarso di melassa (o miele dal sapore deciso)

1 uovo medio

1 cucchiaino e mezzo di estratto di vaniglia puro

Accendete il forno a 175°C. Coprite due leccarde da forno o teglie da biscotti con carta forno. Tagliate quindi il cioccolato molto molto finemente e aggiungetelo a farina, sale, lievito, bicarbonato, avena e noci in una ciotola capiente. In un'altra ciotola, riducete il burro a crema con un cucchiaio di legno o il mixer, aggiungete lo zucchero e continuate a lavorare, quindi aggiungete l'uovo, la melassa e la vaniglia e mescolate il tutto fino a che il composto non è bello omogeneo. Aggiungete i liquidi agli ingredienti secchi e mescolate fino ad amalgamare gli ingredienti. Con l'aiuto di un cucchiaio come misura, prendete l'impato e lavoratelo tra le mani fino a formare una pallina, disponetela sulla teglia, e ripetete fino alla fine dell'impato. Distanziate i biscotti perchè si allargheranno durante la cottura. Infornate e cuocete per 10 minuti. Sfornate e fate raffreddare su una gratella. Si conservano bene per 10 giorni in un contenitore ermetico o una scatola di latta. 

Detail: Good-Mood Chocolate Cookies

0 Strawberry Polenta Cake | Torta di Fragole e Polenta

I wish I had an emotional story full of childhood memories behind this recipe. I don't. What I have, is a story of daily life in the green outskirts of London. Hope you like it anyway -or else, just give a try to the cake, it deserves your attention.

After working my morning shift, between the daily run and a blog roundup, I often squeeze-in a trip to the local grocery stores to see what is appealing and most of all, on special. A key aspect of living in such an expensive city is being extremely cautious in terms of expenses: any way to lower the weekly grocery bill is a good way. This, of course, without compromising my eating habits and health --my mental sanity is already compromised enough. So, I try to save some time to explore my options in terms of quality/price ratio at all the possible supermarkets out there.



On my way from Wimbledon Park to Wimbledon town centre I encounter one Food Coop, one Waitrose, one Tesco, one Morrison's and one Marks and Spencer (I didn't count Whole Foods, where I often buy some key-ingredients after my shift). I enter each and every of them to spot the deals, and I already have notes about which has the best ingredients at the best price. The oil is better here, the dried fruit there, etc --what a perfect suburbs desperate housewife I would be! Anyway, since all these stores mark down their produce at the end of the day, that is the moment when I get into action and I fill my basket with local and organic (otherwise very pricey) fruits and vegetables. The last deal was about local strawberries: initially at 4 £ per 400 gr (yes, you heard me), they were marked down at 1.99£ AND had a 2 for 1 deal. Can you imagine my happiness? Naturally, I took two, and I started to picture cakes, scones, muffins on my way back home.

We ate some straight from the box, as there is just nothing like a ripe, juicy strawberry still wet from the washing water. But, as I mentioned before, I cannot consume raw strawberries in big quantities without becoming red and dotty. So, we roasted some again --we are definitely in love with them, and we thought to save a handful to make a cake. I had never made strawberry cake before, and it was a good time to try.



I pinned, noted and scribbled so many recipes but in the end, as it always happens, I made up my own, using my mental taste buds and my pantry ingredients. I used polenta for a touch of extra-rusticity and because I like its coarse texture in baked goods --it's my Venetian gene coming out, here. If you know me, you also know that this is my kind of cake: down to earth, crunchy, fruity, not too sweet and light. Its simple flavors match well with the sunny season, but it is easy to twist using seasonal fruit. It makes for a nice weekend breakfast along with yogurt and fruit, or for a fairly light dessert at the end of a meal --this is how we had it in the past few nights. It just put a smile on our face at the end of some long days. Unfortunately I have no picture of it.

Strawberry Polenta Cake 

1 1/2 cups whole wheat flour 

1 1/2 tsp baking powder 

1/2 tsp baking soda 

1/2 tsp salt 

4 T full fat greek yogurt 

1 cup natural light brown sugar

2 eggs 

1/2 cup whole milk 

4 T polenta flour (corn meal)

6 strawberries, hulled and cut into half 

1/2 cup slivered almonds 

Preheat the oven to 180C/350F degrees. Grease a 9-inch cake pan with a knot of butter. In a medium bowl, mix together flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt. In a large bowl, whisk greek yogurt and sugar until creamy. Add eggs one at a time, whisking well after each addition. Add milk alternating with the flour mixture and keep whisking until just mixed. Stir in the polenta flour, whisk to incorporate. Pour the batter into the prepared cake pan and place strawberry halves on top of the batter, cut side down. Sprinkle the top with almonds. Bake for about 50 minutes (or until a toothpick comes out clean). Cool completely on a wire rack before serving.

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Quello che non ho è una storia romantica legata a questa torta, o al massimo un nostalgico ricordo legato all'infanzia. Quello che ho, è uno sprazzo di vita quotidiana londinese, coi suoi alti e i suoi bassi. Spero rimaniate con me, o che almeno andiate a vedere la torta, perché merita. 

Mi capita spesso, dopo il lavoro e tra la corsa serale e il gir sui blog, di incastrare un giro ai supermercati della zona, per vedere cosa c'è d'ispirante e, soprattutto, in sconto. Uno degli aspetti cruciali della mia nuova vita nella costosa metropoli è quello di fare estrema attenzione alle spese, senza troppo compromettere le mie abitudini alimentari e la mia salute fisica e mentale (ma forse quella è già bella compromessa). Ci si mette tempo ed energie, ma alla fine il risultato paga --o perlomeno, non prosciuga. 

Tra Wimbledon Park, dove vivo, e Wimbledon town, ci saranno 1 km e mezzo, metti 2. Sulla strada, incrocio un Waitrose, un Tesco, un Morrison's e un Marks and Spencer (questo senza contare di essere appena tornata a casa da Whole Foods, dove faccio scorta di alcuni ingredienti chiave). Di solito entro in ognuno e studio gli scaffali per capire cosa è più buono quì o lì, cosa non ha l'olio di palma dove, e cosa  ha in sconto chi. I vantaggi dell'ampia scelta! Comunque, tutti questi negozi hanno in comune il fatto di ridurre il costo di frutta e verdura a fine giornata, ed è lì che entro in azione io, facendo scorta d prodotti locali e bio a prezzi abbastanza accettabili. L'ultimo affare sono state, appunto, le fragole: all'inizio erano prezzate a 4 £ per 400 gr (si si avete capito benissimo!). Con la riduzione, erano alla metà  e c'era anche il 2 per 1. 1£ a scatola, per intenderci. Messe in saccoccia due belle scatole, sono tornata a casa col sorriso --ah, i piccoli piaceri della vita!-- con pensieri di torte, muffins e quant'altro che mi giravano per la testa.

Alcune delle suddette fragole sono sparite in un batter d'occhio: lavate mangiate, ciuffetti verdi sul fondo della ciotola. Ma siccome non ne posso mangiare tantissime crude, pena i puntini in faccia, alcune di nuovo sono state fatte al forno (quanto ci piacciono anche così!), e una manciata è finita dentro una torta, nata un po' così, e finita anche quella in un baleno. Non avevo mai fatto una torta con le fragole prima, ed era una buona occasione per provare. 

ho pinnato una serie di ricette, scarabocchiato molte idee, preso nota qui e lì. Alla fine, come al solito, ho fatto di testa mia, mettendoci dentro quello che mi sembrava buono e giusto. La scelta della polenta è stata abbastanza casuale, ma sapevo che avrebbe dato al dolce quel tocco rustico che tanto mi piace --saranno i miei geni veneti che entrano in azione. Mi conoscete abbastanza per sapere che è in tutto e per tutto il mio stile di dolce: grezzo, croccantello, con la frutta e con una velata dolcezza. Semplice e fresco si abbina bene alla bella stagione che sta per arrivare, si spera, anche qui, ma si presta bene anche ad altre versioni con frutta di stagione. Lo vedo bene a colazione, nel weekend, con yogurt e frutta, ma anche alla fine di una cena leggera, senza troppi sensi di colpa. A noi ha dato un sorriso alla fine di alcune lunghe giornate, ma di questo, ahimé, non c'è foto. 

Torta di Fragole e Polenta 

1 1/2 cups (circa 180 gr) di farina integrale

1 cucchiaino e 1/2  di lievito per dolci (non vanigliato)

1/2 cucchiaino di bicarbonato di sodio

1/2 cucchiaino di sale

4 cucchiai (60 ml) di yogurt greco intero

1 cup (230 gr) di zucchero di canna grezzo 

2 uova 

1/2 cup (120 ml) di latte intero

4 cucchiai di farina di mais (polenta)

6 fragole grosse tagliate a metà

una manciata abbondate di mandorle a scaglie

Scaldate il forno a 180°C. Da una parte, mescolate farina, lievito, bicarbonato e sale. Dall'altra, sbattete lo yogurt greco con lo zucchero con l'aiuto di una frusta finché non otterrete un composto cremoso. Aggiungete un uovo alla volta e continuate a sbattere, aggiungete poi il latte alternato al mix di farine. Alla fine, aggiungete la polenta, mescolate un'ultima volta per incorporarla, quindi versate il composto in uno stampo da dolce imburrato (il mio era 26 cm). Adagiate le fragole con la parte tagliata rivolta verso il basso, cospargete il dolce con le mandorle e infornate per circa 50 minuti (prova stecchino). Sfornate e lasciate raffeddare su una gratella prima di affettare. 

Detail: Strawberry Polenta Cake | Torta di Fragole e Polenta